Hall of Fame
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: The moment's of glory throughout the PJO archive recorded for your leisure.
1. Chapter 1

I've seen it. Thousands of times over my eyes have waded through the thick, everlasting words that tear down everything in their path. Hate spews freely, things that are sure to bury in the innocent veins and sting like a bee's tale that's found it's home and final resting place. Watching time and time again, the things that keep coming around.

_The category has fallen._

Shamelessly, people butcher everything that an author has taken time to piece together.

_We don't need any more crap, the fandom's full of it already._

Fearlessly, they tear into flesh, unafraid to mock and scorn those that have failed to appease their high standards and guilty desires. Shame falls from their lips and fingertips only to land on the unsuspecting victim, the pure _writers_.

I was once told that there are storytellers, and then there are writers. And that's the truth; some people know how to say what other's need to hear to get by and plow through the pages with numb literature. They reach up with only their palms and attempt to grab at the bar that has been set for decency. They understand that some people can allow themselves to be the 'easy' of the reviewers. They can settle for anything.

Then there are the people who sit before monitors and notepads, eyes, hands, fingers all flickering and guiding the words into a place that suits them. The words are nestled between others where agreement is mutual. They allow magic to unfold with a stroke by pen or pointer. They reach out with long arms, fingers extended desperately to extend beyond the ordinary.

I used to sit, flip through the shamed eyes that have brought forth the reasoning behind loss of faith in writer's everywhere. I would read a listless amount of stories that weren't seemingly perfect—though no story ever could be—and make the minor adjustments.

_Say this here._

_Do this there._

Today, I walk through grand halls, crème colored with rich white trimming. They hang, unabashedly, lining these halls with a generous spacing between them, as if being examined in an art museum—exactly where they belong. Because each in its own is a form of art, beautiful and carefully put together. Believe you me, every single one deserves their place, hanging on these walls.

I'm proud to tell you that though the art itself is not my own, the home to these craftings belongs to me solely. I have rounded them together for viewers across the Percy Jackson and the Olympians fandom to be put on display, to restore hope, to bring peace to unsettled souls. Each day I see new faces pass through and stare admiringly, and I know somewhere deep down that I am succeeding.

It's not as great, this collection I have, as the ones still roaming with no place to call their own, but each piece has earned its spot in my Hall of Fame.

I stand before the greats of the archive before pulling open the door at the end of the hall. These pieces are merely the beginning—more are sure to come. And so I sit, swivel chair and desk, single large monitor on the smooth oak, and scan. I know, I _know_, it may seem boring. Flipping through fiction after fiction, some better than others, but it's my job and responsibility—somehow it came to be—to single out the stories that belong in this hall of mine.

And the start is page one of hundreds.

Oh my.

Introductions, I assume are in order, but you all will soon know my name. (Well, one can hope.) For now I stand firm with my alias, Jane. Jane Doe. Rather dull, but just the sort of thing you can adjust to without much thought (like if my name were something complicated, such as Crystal Aquamarine Atlanta Rainbow *Ahem*).

But my name has never really mattered (I just love to talk about myself, and some believe it's rather unhealthy, while others will argue that a little time for yourself is never a bad thing. I just happen to agree with the latter). The names that matter are the pennames of creators, masters of the written word, and angels of literature. The ones that hold firm the supports of the fandom, despite its crumbling walls. Their voices will be heard, and I'm proud to say that I'm handing over the microphone.

Cup bearer of Olympus, if you will.

Gotta say, new faces are enjoyed in this fine corridor.

**A/N: Simply put, this is going to become the Percy Jackson Hall of Fame, updated annually. I'll filter through every—**_**single**_**—story in the archive (oh my goodness) and choose only that of a certain quality.**

**And I'd like an assistant. So, if you feel up to it (details below) then let me know and I guess I'll choose a person. I hate choices… They make me dizzy…**

**Anywho!**

**The job of my assistant is to suggest stories they've found interesting, with their reasons behind it, and then I'm going to look it over. And vice versa—I'll want your opinion on my selections, so I'll probably refer to some of your work to decide by your own quality (please be aware of this fact).**

**This will extend beyond just this year; it's a large-scale project, so you'll have to hang around for a while and get used to my whacky humor. **

**Keep tabs on this story because it's your chance to find the good fics.**

**Later, loves!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, a pretty decent turn-out I guess. Most did say they weren't fit for the position, some were willing, but I'm still holding off until I'm absolutely sure how I'm going to do this.**

**I'm going to try one way first through an OC's eyes, then I'll make another attempt on the next chapter with a different set-up (let me know which you prefer). **

**The "Grand Opening" of the hall will be July 23, and you'll see what that means on that date.**

I don't think myself a nosy person.

Curious as a cat, sure. I could live with that title easily—my mother had about sixteen pussies clawing up the furniture and I'll be the first to admit that I had grown fond of the family pets (o' course I have to exclude Lucifer, that little demon, who tore up my face the first day we got him. He was always Mother's favorite beast.) I liked to think of myself as her precious Priscilla, the one always sticking her mug where it didn't belong and got another blamed (mostly Lucifer, so you can see why I show favor here) as easily as breathing.

What was I talking about?

Oh. Right.

So, curiosity. Really, all I had been doing was mopping the marble floors with that stuff on that commercial (the one with the lady—what did she always say? Power…?) minding my own business, doing my best to stay out of Ms. Jane's way.

She always had this condescending way about her. I mean, she was nice enough and she liked smiling lots—she'd smile at just about anybody, surprisingly including me—and she had a mischievous glint. Someone you could get along with just fine and dandy, but you do something cross or rude and she'd fix you up nice with this firm stink eye like she was staring down the dog that just peed on the fine Persian rug in her office. Her hair was always trimmed just to her shoulders, nice and light brown, like a warm cup of sweet Cuban coffee, with big blue eyes that liked to scan every square inch of space around her. And she never once failed to show up with something like jeans and a nice black or white blouse and matching heels. And she always, _always_ had those black feathers earrings that framed her face nicely.

Not that I noticed or nothing.

So, I was scooting around her, mopping up the lack of dust and dirt on her always perfect floors, when I noticed Jeff wiping down a glass case. Thing is, we ain't _never_ supposed to go looking under the white sheets that were draped over the display cases. Most were empty, but if you by chance took a peek and there was actually something _in_ them cases—boy, you might as well tuck tail and run. You just don't look until the displays are open for public viewing. Only two people in the world knew what was under those sheets and they were always tucked away nicely in their fancy offices, typing or scanning or doing something that looked extremely important to the world and its people. Never idle hands, always busy.

Of course, I slid my mop furiously back and forth across the floor, making my way over to him as discreetly as possible, and I nudged his shoulder, peering over my own to make sure the coast was clear.

"Jeff," I hissed, still taking in a wide sweep at the other guys all bent over doing something. "Man, what're ya doing?" It was hard to keep my voice down with all the excitement that was swelling in my chest. But after clearing my throat, I figured I could manage a little better.

"I'm cleaning the case, what does it look like?"

Alright. I know, I know, he's new—and you could tell by the way he was so calm about this whole ordeal. A newbie who wasn't too bright—that's a bad combination. I, having been here since day one, am considered pretty intelligent around all my friends, and they respected me. I'm dead set on believing that had nothing to do with my being bigger than all of them. I knew I had to shoo him off—Ms. Jane don't trust none of these guys near as much as me, so I figured if I was the one cleaning the case, I could get away with my head.

"Here, you take this here mop and I'll take this operation over, ya hear?"

He quirked an eyebrow hesitantly but handed over his spray bottle and cloth, taking my mop and swinging it around willy-nilly to where I had been. I tried not to growl irritably, but that kid had no right to treat my equipment as nothing more than a mere tool. Grumbling under my breath, I turned to take up his task, shooting him my own stink eye on occasion.

We were talking about curiosity earlier, right?

Well, it started to creep in under my skin, seeping in with the spray, and wrapped all around my mind. Here it was, open and naked just for my eyes to feast on. The temptation was great. I could easily look away, but man-oh-man the force of want was pushing its way into my mind and I was trapped. It got me hook, line, and sinker and now I was sure gonna be a goner.

Slowing my hand just to get a better look I about lost half my mind to all the secrets hidden behind the glass. This case had _something_, all right. But it was just a bunch of words.

I guess I shoulda saw that coming since this is a fandom's hall of fame.

I tried to ignore Mother's old, rattled voice echoing in my head, scolding me for sneaking around. I was seven years old again with my fist stuck in her ceramic cookie jar shaped like a smug cat.

It was only a matter of time 'til I was found out.

But man-oh-man, jeez-oh-jeez, this was just too good.

Written in some elegant cursive on the top beam of the gold frame were the bold words: _FIRST RECORDED FICTION._

I didn't think nothing of it 'til I scanned the content.

_Song of the Sirens_

_By: BloomingAuthor7_

_Rated: K_

_Language: English_

_Category: Romance & Humor_

_Published: October 19, 2006_

_Review count: 205_

_Chapters (1)_

Well, I'll be darned.

I didn't have a clue what the heck that was about.

There were more words flowing down to the bottom of the glass case and I could just see that they were cut off at the line that read:

—_point of view. (And forgive me if I'm a bit of—_

I groaned in frustration and thought to try out that new feature—everything was touch screen nowadays, right? I stuck my finger on the glass, knowing it was covered in grime and I had just cleaned the case, and flicked it up. It left a nice streak on the otherwise gleaming case and did nothing more.

I suspect I shoulda known since I had just been rubbing a cloth all over the glass with nothing special happening.

Whoops. I scooped up the spray bottle, ready-aim-fired, and wiped it down. Unfortunately, what with all my might and aggravation, I managed rubbing up too hard and lifted that dumb—surprisingly light case—off its hook. If I had been expecting any more, I was sure the SWAT team would come running around, guns blazing. I got off lucky with the alarm blaring in everybody's ears.

I was also fortunate in that I caught the display before it could touch down on the ground. When I gripped the frame, I felt my finger graze something protruding from the case—maybe a button or something—and the outer coat of glass folded up inside the frame, nice and fancy. My belly, slightly larger than I'd like to admit, rubbed against the new-found screen and it started filtering like crazy, words flowing up like one of those Star Wars movie entrances. I could read any of it, but I knew I had just scanned through the whole page and on the bottom the last words not in bold made me blush furiously.

"_I love you."_

Wowza, where did that come from?

As I fumbled around, trying to make the rogue screen stop acting haywire, heels clicked fervently on the floor and I figured Ms. Jane was scurrying over to me, wondering if I was a lunatic. She probably hated me.

"Carl, are you okay?" Immediately, her hand was placed on my shoulder in the friendliest manner possible and she seemed to register that I was holding her fancy case awkwardly, my spray bottle leaking onto the floor and my rag just soaking it up.

"I-I'm fine, Ms. Jane," I tried as her petite assistant ran over, clipboard tucked under her arm and hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wrapped her little hands on the case, taking it gingerly from my grasp. "I'm awfully sorry, ma'am."

"Nonsense," she examined it before turning back to me with that friendly smile, a slight grimace like she was afraid I'd go tell what I'd saw—which wasn't much. "So long as no one got hurt."

I was about to reassure her again that I was fine, when I felt that curiosity and confusion gripping my neck tightly. "Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying," I fumbled over my words, sure I'd sound like an idiot as I pulled my cap from my head and twisted it in my sweaty and grimy mitts. "That thing there's awfully confusing…"

"Would you like to see how it works?"

Mark, my old buddy from high school was glowering at me, not believing my good fortune.

Turns out curiosity never really killed any cats or saved any mice.

**I didn't actually look this over (don't hurt me!) but I had fun writing it. And I did manage to pick the blandest names in all humanity—other than, like, Bob or Joe—but I'm not really too worried about character names so much as personality and what those secret cases contain.**

**So, yeah. Whoo for chapter two!**


	3. Chapter 3

**And now we move on to chapter 3, and all that it may be worth (which may not be much, or near so as the two prior).**

**This format isn't varying greatly to the previous, as I thought of doing, but I couldn't hold off on another update without losing interest in this project. I've come across three pretty decent fics; they aren't the best out there, but I'm looking for good and these break the line just enough to count. Actually, I **_**really **_**like them.**

**One, unfortunately, is not complete –heavy sigh- and it's a shame with how captivating the plot is.**

**There have been others I've considered, but they just weren't hard-hitting like I'm looking for (it was almost a difficult decision, keeping them out of this story of mine).**

**Okay, and I did get story suggestions. Well, two stories from one person, so thanks for that. I had planned on one of those, but I haven't read the latter so I'll be sure to look into it. Very sweet reviews from everyone so I have to tell you—I'm extremely grateful for them. They keep me updating this rather than my other stories (I know, I'm terrible, right?)**

**And… onward!**

* * *

><p>Creation in itself has always appealed to me in a beautiful, strange light. Watch it grow, become, endure, create, live and breathe, wade and hesitate. It can go beyond imagination if it truly pleases to, and I do aspire to be one with such of these likes, but I often find myself faced with people who stop their innovations from proceeding in these fields. They hold them in common bounds.<p>

_You do this—never take risks and just stay inside the lines._

Sometimes, you have to break out of the imprisoning box and spread your wings.

Scream from the roof tops for all that you're worth.

Carl's parents did necessarily become those cage dwellers, and in turn engendered that idea in his own mind.

He was nothing beyond ordinary, with a wide gut that had caused him some problems in the past here at my hall, and a slick crew-cut of plain browns and mossy grays in his sideburns, flat brown irises. He was quick to apologize for just about _anything_ and always had the utmost of perfect manners that I had to admit were despised and envied by many (namely myself). He never said something with the audacity and wit that I desired to surround myself with and he genuinely tried to please your average Joe. If I were to be the only nut in this corridor, I'd just about smack myself silly every other day. And take breaks from that by slamming my head against the smooth oak desk sprawled before me.

Thank God parents were becoming more careless with mannerisms that had been important before my generation.

My assistant, for instance, was even more whacky—which helped to level me out; not the most boring but definitely not the leader of the peanut gallery.

She was breathing over my right shoulder, pointing to something she apparently enjoyed thoroughly and I resisted asking her why she was in my office rather than her own. Trusty sidekick that she was, I couldn't shoo her away in all fairness. My head was cradled in my palm, free-handed fingers helping to scroll down the pages. Carl sat in a cushioned chair slightly off of my left, pupils dilated with (hopefully) excitement. I knew better; he was utterly confused and had all he owned naturally scared out of him—if you know what I mean.

She muttered something in my ear and I grunted out my question with no formed words attached.

"Said—I quite like this one."

"Care to elaborate?"

She raised a dainty finger tipped off with a clean French manicure and laid it down on the screen. "Here, it puts a constant emphasis on this one word. And right here," she adjusted her fingertip to hover over a paragraph, "it gives deeper feeling."

I could see that plain as day—despite my common beliefs, I was apparently quite bright.

Don't tell my mother, but my IQ was a simmering ten points higher than hers.

I scrolled to the top of the page, patient with Carl's laboring breaths like he would break down and hyperventilate from just sitting in the offices. I spared him a moment only to find that his eyes were continuously flickering from me to the frame, like it was poison that he could extract and die from, slowly, painfully. I did manage to resist a roll of the eyes, I'm proud to report.

"Take note of _Love is Only a Feeling._ Author- _Becky C_." I squinted for a moment, and huffed beneath the layers of Carl's breathing. "Huh. Cute profile picture."

My partner in crime cleared her throat, cradling a clipboard with the paperwork that necessarily had to be complete before ordering the display. Her pen hung, suspended over the third line. "Jane?"

"Right," I read, despite my innards shouting that my tone was monotonous. "Rated K+; English—an awful lot of them are in English, aren't they?" I blinked myself from my concentration's crumbling moment of weakness at her request. "Angst, of course. Reviews- a whopping twenty. Is it bad that I'm kinda proud of that number?"

"Considering you aren't the author?"

"No, just in general."

She shrugged, thin tip still scratching across the paper in what appeared to be official terms. "It's a considerable number."

"On what accounts?"

"It's only a one-shot, correct?" I weighed her logic over and over in my mind, hoping for once she didn't have the perfect point, but as always—spot-on logic came into play.

"Given it's not as fantastic or astounding as _Song of the Sirens_, but that's the first fiction printed on the fandom…" I allowed her to disperse into her own thoughts as she caught up the final draft of the form.

I found myself staring once again at poor, piteous Carl, slumped over and glaring disbelievingly at my container. He seemed to believe wholeheartedly that it would rear back and bite him if he took on a curious edge for it ever again.

"Jane," I blinked up at her, feeling my improper demeanor having led me to brandishing myself with disciplinary thoughts. "When was it published?"

"Oh," I scanned the thin bar and relayed the date effortlessly. "April 17, 2007."

"And the ID number?"

"3494085," listless numbers, with no real meaning behind them other than reference in stock—my least favorite subject on the dreaded order forms. They were the epitome of death by marketing, sales and registration in every standard way possible, in my personal opinion.

I backtracked to page six-hundred-and-twenty of the archive and scanned down to where I had previously stationed my screen, filtering through words that held little to no meaning to me. No feeling nor depth to capture my attention until I stumbled upon another little number that could go along just beautifully with a spotlight and flashing neon sign singing its name to the heavens.

She was back to hovering, clipboard still encased in her fingers only just given the opportunity to rest upon the desk. Her eyes, with mine, flitted across the lines and lines of writing exceptionally fast and a grin must have slipped past her intimidate-the-workers exterior.

"Oh, this is beautiful," she breathed and picked up her habit of pressing, fingertip to monitor, thoughtlessly. "Look at the descriptions. Light attitude, but quick wit. Real down-to-earth quality."

And once again, I found myself boasting the thoughts of her always managing to snag every word possible from my tongue before I had chance to find it was even there. I had to agree, but only acutely.

I sighed through my nose hesitantly. Her judgments had been pretty on the mark—everything looked right, but something _felt_ off.

"I don't like _Emerald Runner_." I had meant to spit the name out distastefully, but as it turns out, that's how it happened. I loathed this character.

"Why? Because she's an obvious love interest of Percy? Or the lack of mentioning Annabeth…?"

"I can dismiss those feelings easily," I waved her off. No, this had nothing to do with the smashing of one—ahem, favored pairing. I was certain that something would come that led them to falling all over each other (even though, the further I skimmed the more I found that he, and I quote 'had summed up her personality and had decided to spit it back out') or at least becoming ever-more than friendly.

No, this ran as thick as blood. I _loathed _this.

"She's a Sue," I spat. Not one of the noticeable ones at first until you scanned deeper into her character. Just skimming the surface was the hard-to-notice truth. She was beautiful; every boy in the camp was head-over-heels, breathlessly in love with her; Percy had given up his flaw of loyalty to take a liking to her; she was stronger than a majority of her siblings. And she did have flaws—her cabin mates also loathed her (she was the epitome of a stereotypical Aphrodite child), she was mean, had a serious attitude problem. And she was independent. The combination, one would think recovered for the outer beauty, but this was merely a Sue taking on the tent of spiteful nature.

There are two forms of a Sue or Stu: the purest of them all—perfection in a skin-coated bottle, sweet, charming, beautiful. Bleh.

And then the jerk Sue or Stu—still beautiful but with the downfall of a horrendous personality. Sometimes Bipolar, easily upset, continually tearing down. They never had a true weak moment though, where the armor would fall back to reveal a human. She was increasingly more this Sue than the prior.

"So, you're rejecting _Beautiful Secret_ from the hall?"

I hesitated once again. Sues had no place in this shelter for the bettered, haven for the upmost. They were banned the moment they came upon the doorstep, however the style was in tip-top shape, the plot was decently imaginative—despite it sticking like glue to the thievery of the first in the original series—and every aspect of the character Percy Jackson had remained intact with little to no traces of breaks in his strong heart.

"Place an order, but lock it in the vault until further notice. I'm going to have to trace back to it eventually."

She completed yet another form with steady hands running across the paper, more graceful than I'd have been capable of.

We managed to stumble upon another piece of literature—_The Adventures of Bianca di Angelo and Zoe _(how original)— that appeared to be worth our time, if only for a moment. The first chapter, in technical terms—the _prologue_, had managed to enrapture our attention, pulled us in and encouraged us. More hope! Unfortunately, through the second chapter, the writing seemed to falter near the beginning. It wasn't too terrible and managed to hold long enough for us to push through to the third, where we found our unfortunate fangirls emerge for a mere second.

A hot, older boy—surprise, surprise!

But what did rattle our cages was Bianca's feelings towards the older man, not romantic in any sense—thank all goodness in the world. The understanding for Bianca's character and attitude, despite her short moment of spotlight and sudden demise, therefore blocking any possible judge in full character, held firm to the ways of cannon. I had to admit I felt a falter in Zoë's own actuality, but I managed to let it slid long enough to realize that this fiction may be worth having.

"Let's jot this one down to send out with the other forms," I told her, still scrolling through the third chapter that fell off with a line that was just a large enough cliff to bring me down in dismay. I felt my morale falling the moment my eyes touched down on the review button. "I do wish they had completed this story. It may have been worth so much more to us."

I lingered over the back arrow long enough to wonder what would have happened, what quest would've been worth embarking on and protecting the resurrected child of Hades. I had to. In every author or reviewer of literature in its purest of forms, one must be curious enough. That's what leads a reader to go on; the sense of adventure and romance and action and all things bittersweet, taken one way or the other.

"Ah well; beggars can't be choosers."

I wished they could. Oh, how I wished we could.

* * *

><p><strong>And fin.<strong>

**For now! So, I can go with this, where I only mention the title and then go into detail at the Grand Opening (July 23, whoo!) or play it cool with Carl and other OCs that you can send in if you'd like to linger in my hall, as staff or a lesser viewer. I guess this is the part where I take a vote, huh?**

**It'll probably vary despite what the final tally is, but I'll hold true to the winner throughout with dabbles in the other form.**


	4. Chapter 4

**TwIx27—Hey, yeah, so I understand your stance and possible unwillingness. But I think you'd be worth having on board. You always drop lovely, encouraging reviews and I'd really appreciate you considering my offer for the position. Think about it?**

**Sweetly Blissful—I think I could squeeze in a position you may appreciate. If you're interested, drop me a line (PM me or review) and I'll give you the details.**

**To the rest, if you want involvement I'm thinking of giving an opportunity. If you want a spotlight appearance on the Grand Opening day, give me the general ideas for your character. If you want a spot more permanent, let me know. I can give you a spot at janitor! (It's a joke, guys… unless it's not for you.)**

Ms. Jane didn't understand.

She normally doesn't, I've come to realize. Not to say that she's an imbecile, nor is she ignorant of reality that drifts slowly around her.

But sometimes she just kinda breaks flow and plays queen of the outcasts. Did she not realize that the successful ones were the people who hung with the tide?

Probably not.

Then again, I must not have either because I was here, tripping, stumbling over the same mounds, fighting the same battle relentlessly with sand and dirt and dust and grime flittering through the air and making a nasty connection with my eye in the pursuit of hope and instilling it in others. I tried to pull off being the only level-headed person in this building, however sitting around with Jane in the lounge, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, both of us bubbling over with laughter and careless stains on our jeans, it was near impossible to remain intact.

Carl was still bundled in her office, playing useless, probably prying around now that she had taken off wherever she goes midday, looking through every secret contained within those four walls now that she had given him free reign. He was nice enough but that didn't mean I had to trust him.

And that was what was clouding my mind as I tore into this story with bared fangs and a fresh hunger, renewed famishment pulsing through my veins. This was something worth having in any hall of fame, be it science or art—personal opinion of course having to plague your decision making skills. I digress.

The very first paragraph had my mind reeling with deep thoughts and sludge. This was really making the people who rushed into things stop and stare, think, understand, dissect. Hate—not the opposite of love?

How is it then, that the world's popular beliefs hold this to be the truth?

Indifference, I suppose I understood this logic. The line between hate and love must be thin if you're still emotionally connected with powerful, potent feelings. Therefore, indifference must be exactly what had been implied—or not truly implied, should I say. It was written out, black-and-white with little to no grey to read into. So maybe it wasn't implied… does it truly matter?

No. So anyways.

Luke was right in having taken up the very connected position of hate—he was not yet over what they had done, or initially _not_ done.

I found myself utterly amazed at the depth of his understanding in how he was reacting and why, with no official doubts, though they must have existed if he were willing to drop a line about it over and over, forcing an understanding upon the recipient of his letter that was never sent… so I assume I must reassess the position that I've placed Percy in. His category wouldn't truly be as recipient, but merely the subject, subconsciously being lectured though not aware at all.

I'm really bad at containing my thoughts, or at least organizing before I allow them to process as conscious efforts to understand.

I was shuffling the sticky, bubblegum pink paper—_Spiderthread Untruths—_ in my two hands restlessly as I slunk down the hall in my bare feet towards Jane's office where Carl the Abominable hid away. I was certain she would truly enjoy this work, though the author was very big on bragging—with every right to—so proudly displaying a novel of a review on the second chapter that gushed about the beauty of the piece. Jane had something for raw reality that, though some fangirls wouldn't understand or appreciate, others would value greatly. Carl probably had no such welcome for pieces of pure wonder.

I suppose I should explain the…ah, distaste for poor, pitiful Carl. That sot.

At the start of his career as the sweet cleaning boy—oh-so innocent and pure, all things angelic—little Carl decided it would be cute to ask me out on a date. He was nearly adorable, when he pulled his baseball cap from his clean cut and clutched it to his chest along with a bouquet and spark of hope that I would say yes. So I did. Not necessarily able to refuse one of the nice guys in the world, I told him when and where he could pick me up and wasn't hesitant on giving him details on where we would be going.

As a little girl I'd always had an obsession with the 'perfect date'.

Needless to say, it didn't turn out so pretty, I asked him to not ask me out for a second date. And the hopeful boy, stupid as he was, simply wouldn't quit on asking and apologizing over and over and over. I'm not heartless, I assure you, but every fiber of my being restrains me from holding any positive feelings towards the poor lad.

Oh well.

I flattened the sticky end down on the desk—she never cared for the nicer things in life—and was swiveling on my heel to head out when low-and-behold the vault lay open.

The vault rests on the wall directly behind her desk, just a simple safe that's about a perfect square squeezed into the plaster and paint wholeheartedly. No picture or mirror, no grotesque object making a sour and sickly attempt at covering it; it was simply there. And inside lay packets of paper, like scripts for plays, stacked orderly and pristinely, one on the other. Stories. Lengths varied, but value was all generally equal. Just another secret to be contained, along with the display cases that are over-zealous busboy stole a peak of. He undoubtedly couldn't just stop there. More secrets to uncover, lying beneath a steel plate.

I swung the door open just a little more and started sifting through, half expecting to find heaps of missing wonders or titles that had been shuffled about. By now, with all of the sudden interest at the fact that nothing had really been moved on the upper layers, my head was halfway hidden in the vault. And I stumbled upon a red velvet box.

Rectangle in shape.

A locket made of pure silver.

With the inscription _Beth Doe._

And there stood Jane in the doorway, a confused Carl looming over her shoulder, both not looking too pleased by the incredibly convenient position they found me in.

Crap.

**So, this one didn't turn out too great—especially considering the position I was writing (the assistant with a non-existent personality or identity!) but I'll let it slide this once.**

**People haven't been responding to my author notes, but I really wish you would so you could help me out with this project.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, people. Quite a long time since you heard from me last. I'm not going to attempt to recall my last update for any story.**

**This is, unfortunately, a message of defeat. Admittance that I made a mistake in trying to overcome this incredibly difficult task.**

**I thought for sure that if I truly searched, I would find a lovely lump of stories worth your time, ones that would do Rick Riordan justice. And it was off to a good start.**

**Recently, I started writing a novel of my own that I'm hoping to get published, but it's still in its adolescent stages. I refer to it as my baby. It's really a crack story, but it's fun to write. General plot: Well, I won't give that away just yet.**

**Anyway, I just came back to the fandom to scan, see if I could find anything to read rather than do homework. I'm mortified by the selection. **_**Mortified. **_**Please don't be offended or discouraged if one of those stories belonged to you, but every other summary was either 'I suck at summaries,' 'What the title says,' or had the letter 'u' in place of the word 'you'. And most of the plots are the same.**

**You know that story about Chaos? **

**I know you do. Don't lie. You've seen it rewritten by fifty different authors, all with the same exact plot and same issues. Same causes and effects, same reactions and actions, same flawed characters that are very OOC. By now, the word 'Chaos' makes me gag.**

**And 'The Mark of Athena?' Leave it to Rick. So many people are making poorly planned predictions as to what will happen that I want to die.**

**Honestly, reading just the summaries—the **_**summaries**_**, people—have turned my love of Percy Jackson into extreme discomfort. I never know what form of Percy I'll be greeted by next: the angsty, love sick dog or maybe just the imbecile. No matter how they say they've made him, he's not Percy and I don't like it. Not one bit.**

**I know there's hope, guys. I've read some amazing stories by truly amazing authors. Now, if only they'll write a story every five seconds and overpower the amateur writers… **

**I know there's hope, but you won't find it here. Not with this story.**

**I tried, but I don't have the time—school, dance, church, and a novel?—or the patience to flip through every repetitive piece that people 'imagine' up.**

**Now, since it's illegal to only post an author's note—an extensive, discouraging one at that—I will write a little something or other. Maybe you'll like it, maybe you'll see that I've melted into one of the million other authors just scraping by.**

**Disclaimer: It's not mine.**

In your dreams, you're beautiful.

In your dreams, there is peace and promise and perfection that you've yet to meet in your reality.

You can stand tall, well-built with muscles like a Minotaur, sinewy calves worth protecting by bronze and not just cotton. You can tower over her; you can smile and not be so ashamed of the angle your teeth have swerved; you can proudly look into a mirror and see that guy you've always wanted to be.

He's tall, dark, and handsome. His hair is sleek and soft, glowing and beautiful, despite the fact that the muddy color and style remains true to your actuality. Something about a dream can make you beautiful. His skin is smooth and even, painted creamy and touchable, not red and blotchy. His stomach is defined as a six-pack, not the whole keg as yours has been referred to as. His arms can manage the weight of a double-edged sword and not just a pillow. You admit, even his butt looks good from this angle and that angle.

When Drew is looking down on him, it's not because he's sniveling in a corner, holding a cushion tight to his chest or because he's hoping she'll just disappear, but because she sees something special in him, in you, and because maybe she's willing to take a chance with you—him. With him. Only him, the Fantasy, not the Dreamer.

In your dreams, you rank somewhere up where the Prophecy kid is, highly esteemed and all.

In your dreams, you land the most beautiful, immensely passionate girl that makes you uncomfortable when you look her way.

In your dreams, you're not just the Sandman, or Sleepwalker, or whatever nicknames they have for you.

In your dreams, you're just you, and that's all you could ever be.

Clovis, the boy who dreamed.

**Very short, very choppy. When I say "you're just you" it doesn't mean that he's the plump boy who sleeps all day. When people tell you to be yourself, do they mean to be your image or your inner-persona?**

**That line just felt like it needed some explaining.**

**High Fiving Jesus over and out. For now.**


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